To Be A Knight
by Bryher
Summary: There was no redemption here. Only pain and hurt and loss. Tristan character study.
1. Dagonet

**Title;** Dagonet

**Rating;** T

**Summary;** "He felt despair welling up inside his chest, a tight, uncomfortable feeling that threatened to spill out of his mouth in an anguished howl."- Character study.

**Authors Notes; This is dark. It is not the Dagonet we are used to. I'm planning to make this into a series of character studies- one for each knight. Let me know what you think, please. **

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The streets were empty and bare of life. Dust from the road rose underfoot, and the silent heaviness of the night-time pressed down on the fortress. This giant cage was overwhelming and stifling.

Dagonet shifted position against the gatehouse wall. It was his time now. The daytime was for the other knights; for their love of the light and the sun.

The night, however, belonged to him.

Oh, the people of the fort thought that Tristan stalked the alleys at night, but he slept in the haylofts of the stables, his bird nearby.

No.

It was Dagonet who walked in the morning hours; Dagonet who saved the occasional stray whore or drunken soldier.

It was frustrating. He could find no satisfaction in the frivolities of the day; the drinking and the revelry, bloodshed and lovemaking that occurred before the midnight hours.

It made him empty and lonely.

Now, sat against the gatehouse, back pressed to the hard, cold stone and face tilted towards the night sky, the man felt despair welling up inside his chest, a tight, uncomfortable feeling that threatened to spill out of his mouth in an anguished howl.

The night was his place to think, and his place to mourn the life that he been stolen from. He had loved and he had lost; all that was left was his brothers in arms.

"_The Romans have broken their word. We have the word of Arthur. That is enough." _

It had to be enough, didn't it? Because he had nothing else to believe in. The blood that he had shed and the lives he had taken led to nothing but a trail of guilt and sadness. Arthur believed that the men he had killed were for the purpose of his god. But Dagonet didn't believe in God.

What was his excuse for the killing that he did? His fury in battle came not from rage at the opposition, but instead rage at what he had to do. This was not the life that was meant for him. He was a healer, not a killer.

He stood.

This was his time, but the sun was rising, and he would have to return to the room he had lived in for the past fifteen years. They left for the Roman Estate this morning.

He walked silently and quickly, mouth set in a hard line. It would be a hard fight.

Well, he had nothing to lose.

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	2. Bors

Hello there.

I'm "Hera's Vengeance"- or was. I'm now Bryher. Explanation is on my biography. So this is Bors. Arthur's is written and done, pending proof reading. Gawain's is halfway done, and Galahad's is in the planning. It's Bird Boy who's giving me the trouble. Alas. Anyway, they'll be up soon! Enjoy!

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For a great and glorious leader, Arthur could be a real bastard. Bors slumped against the back wall of the tavern and wiped the tears from his face, the mug of ale clutched loosely in his hand slopping everywhichway. This last task, this last journey- this _farce_ wasn't _fair_. Why didn't he just tell the Bishop to fuck off? Tell him to take his Roman ideas and rules and bugger off back over the sea to Italy?

The large Sarmatian felt frustration welling in his chest, the rage that so often took him in battle straining to be released, a howling dirge in his heart that threatened to overwhelm him.

Vanora watched him worriedly from the bar, shuffling back and forth to patrons as they called for more ale. Bors turned away and left, letting the mug shatter on the cobbles as it dropped from his hand. The sound did not make a dint in the sounds of revelry from the tavern. There was so little that these people thought about other than themselves, the fact that the Sarmatians who had been protecting them from the Woads these past fifteen years were condemned to a dangerous task was superfluous. Bors headed for the barracks, eager to go somewhere quiet where he could sit and sulk. Letting the door slam shut behind him, Bors paused, frowning to catch the noise that split the air. The darkened hallway echoed with sounds of a different kind of revelry; Gawain and Galahad. Shaking his head, and suddenly wishing Vanora didn't have to work, the bald knight stomped to his room, slamming the door as hard as he could.

So this is what it was like to be a knight. Bors slumped onto his bed and covered his face with his hands, pushing the hard skin of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to block out any view of the world.

So this is what it was like to be a fucking knight. When he was eight, his father had told him that it was something to be proud of, something that would bring his family honour.

After fifteen years of slaughter and death, Bors was more willing to believe that his father was mad. There was nothing honourable about this. Oh yes, he may boast about his killing, he may act as though it wasn't an issue, but the truth of it was that his children's faces were the ones he killed in battle. Who was to say that his children wouldn't get the same treatment from the Woads or the Saxons? He had killed fathers, sons, wives, daughters… he had killed Woads who were little more than children. Wide-eyed boys who were barely able to lift a sword, but took a swing anyway because they had as little a choice in the matter as he did. It tortured him. It was no way for child to die.

Lifting his head, Bors frowned. Ah. No sound. Moments later, the door to Gawain's room opened and soft footsteps padded to outside his room, before the opposite door opened and closed again quietly. Bors sighed, closing his eyes tightly. He would never understand those two. But he had Vanora; as far as he was aware, there was no woman in the fort that either were attached to. They had each other, and that, he supposed, was enough.

As he fell asleep, the sound of battle rang in his ears; the sound of dying and the screams that followed him through the dark hours. He saw the faces of his dead comrades, and they bid him welcome. They knew what it was to be a knight.

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I would love you forever if you reviewed, but I understand if you don't. After all, I haven't updated for a gazillion years. 


	3. Arthur

Title; Arthur

Rating; T

Summary; He wasn't a perfect knight. God knows, he tried to be. Arthur; character study.

Author's Notes;** This is also dark. Strong language, depresssion and death. **

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Arthur wasn't a perfect knight. God knows he tried to be. All of the hours spent praying for his men, all of the days spent sitting at the beside of the wounded. The selfless acts undertaken, the pride he felt in his religion.

And yet, he was not perfect. The ideals that the Roman Church had offered him were impossible.

And what was this elusive perfection?

Staring into the bottom of his cup, Arthur frowned blearily at the remains of the red liquid that sloshed drunkenly. "There is no p'rfection." He slurred, letting his head bang down onto the tabletop with a thud. "There's on'y pr'fection in _im-per-fec-tion_." The last word was chanted loudly, drunkenly and angrily at the ceiling. A tentative knock at the door broke his from his reverie.

"Wha'?"

"Arthur? Is everything alright?"

Dagonet. Arthur almost groaned. Trust Dagonet to be the one who found him drunk and angry. The most placid knight of them all, dealing with inebriated, pissed-off leader. It hardly ever happened- this…loutish behaviour. But when it did, it was always Dagonet who found him. The knock came again more firmly.

"Fuck off!"

Arthur waited for the customary opening of the door and the heavy hand carting him off to his bed.

It didn't come.

Sitting up, he looked at the door. "Fuck off?" he said, with a little uncertainty creeping into his voice. Nothing. He tried again, this time, with such rigour that he toppled sideways off his stool and onto the hard floor of his room.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, face pressed to the cold stone, arms bent under him. Then the door did open, and Galahad poked his head through. The curly haired young man had turned twenty one last week, and had proceeded to get so thoroughly drunk that the others herded him into the stables, stripped him naked and tied him to his horse for a trip out into the January air.

Arthur chuckled, the sound coming out as a pained gurgle as his face was pressed to the ground.

Galahad looked surprised for a moment, then looked around for Dagonet. "Is Dag not here, Arthur?" he asked quietly, edging into the room.

"He fucked off."

Galahad's eyebrows rose. "Oh he did, did he? I wonder why." He bent down to grasp Arthur under the armpits, dragging him up until the commander of the fort threw his arms around his thighs. The fearless leader grinned, ignoring the younger man's last comment. He waved at the stool. "I fell off my chair."

"I noticed. I think I'll put you to bed, and then go and get Dagonet."

Arthur let go abruptly, sinking to the floor in abject misery and rage. "You're fucking off too? You're jus' like him. None of you like me…'cause I'm a… a Roman."

The bitter statement cut through the air, and a dark look flitted across the youngest knight's face.

"Shut up, Arthur." His tone was sharp and low. Arthur looked away. Galahad heaved the deadweight commander onto his cot, but before he could shift away, Arthur's hands twisted in his clothes. "I'm trying, you know," he whispered, tears shining in his eyes.

Galahad frowned and gripped Arthur's hands, trying to loosen them. "I'm trying, but I can't be perfect. I tried to save… I tried…"

Quite suddenly, Galahad sat down beside him. Arthur felt a rough-skinned hand wiping away the tears that had started falling. "Arthur, there is not a single perfect person in this world. And we all know you're trying. What happened to Bedivere wasn't your fault. It wasn't anybody's fault."

Arthur sobbed. Galahad gently pushed his shoulder until he lay flat on the cot, drawing up the blanket and smoothing the curls back from Arthur's forehead. "There was nothing anyone could have done. Just because you're our leader doesn't mean you are responsible for our own actions. We took a chance, sending Bedivere out. We all did- none of us objected," the young man said gently as Arthur rolled away, facing the wall. "I'm going now- I'm not 'fucking off'," he said quickly, seeing Arthur's shoulders stiffen. "I'm going to bed- across the hall in my room. I'll check on you to make sure you haven't choked on your own vomit. Or ended up in the stables." There was slight humour in his voice at the end, but Arthur could not smile. Galahad's words brought little comfort; it was not that no one objected, it was that he was the one who ultimately sent Bedivere out scouting.

He was not a perfect knight. But the truth of it was, none of them were perfect. This is what it was to be a knight, and it hurt.

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	4. Galahad

Title; Galahad

Rating; T

Summary; There was something eerie about the battlefield after the carnage had stopped. Galahad character study.

Author's Notes; Nothing too graphic, it's more an emotional study with some fluffy "I want to go home" stuff. Gawain got stuck (I mean his chapter, not that Gawain is stuck in a bog somewhere...not that a muddy, wet Gawain is a bad thought...hmm..anyway.) and Tristan is still farting around somewhere in the planning stages, hopelessly lost (for once) Lancelot? He's happy enough waiting to be planned. Hopefully will have another up and out next week. Enjoy!

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There was something eerie about the battlefield after the carnage had stopped. Galahad stood still and watched. Tristan stood in a circle of bodies, one of them aflame. Thick black smoke, aided by the fat of the man, billowed up, partially obscuring the scout from view. Blood was spattered across his face as he surveyed the death around him- death he had caused. He was still breathing heavily, blade loose in his hands. Feral. Galahad shivered.

Gawain was always easy to find. He moved to the edge of the battlefield as soon as it was done, keen to get away from the gore of death and human mortality. His face and chest were also spattered with dark lifeblood. His expression, however, was not one of calm coldness. Gawain was pale and seemed stricken with grief; Galahad felt a lurch as he noticed Bors was missing- until he spotted him standing near Arthur. No, Gawain's grief was for the lives lost here.

Bors seemed alright. There was no sign of melancholia. Galahad narrowed his eyes- there was a slight hunch in the older knights shoulders. The youngest Sarmatian sighed, wiping the debris of battle from his own face. There was different kinds of grief.

Lancelot mounted his horse and cast his eyes around the battlefield. His jaw was tight with anger, curls sticky with blood and gore, twin swords already sheathed. He wanted to ride- and often did, taking scouting over from Tristan on the ride back to release some of the energy that lay pent up and flaming behind his eyes.

Dagonet's grief was open. His eyes shone with anguish as he closed the eyes of those who gazed to the skies, the glassy globes shutting for the last time. The last thing that Dagonet did on the battlefield was this ritual of closing the eyes of the dead. Galahad didn't understand it, and neither did Gawain, when he was asked, but it was as before. Grief was a personal matter; it was different for everyone.

Arthur simply turned his back. Lancelot once called him on it, and their brave and glorious leader turned around and snapped at his shocked friend. None had questioned Arthur's own pain after that.

The ride back to the fort was undertaken in silence. Galahad preferred this. There was no sense in talking about what they had just done. There was no sense in dwelling on the past. There was fear, too. Fear that he wouldn't be able to get home. Fear that he would die before seeing his parents again.

He'd said this to Gawain once. The older man has tilted his head, catlike with curiosity and said "You want to go home. That's in the past, Galahad. Everyone fears it."

Since that day, there had been doubt in his mind. This duty that they had to Rome- it wasn't a duty, it was a slave term. There was no sense in this world unless he was home, and as Gawain had said, his home was in the past. But if he hoped to return there, to hold hope close to his heart, he needed to think about the past.

It was something that he'd once tried to talk to Arthur about. "It is not the nature of men to dwell on the terrible things that they have done," he'd said. "Only the pleasant things are ever remembered wilfully." Secretly, he'd thought that this was rather obvious, but he let it lie.

This is what it was to be a knight. There was death, and there was pain and fear. As the gates to the fort opened, and the regular swell of women and men- and Bors' horde- swept out to greet them, Galahad looked over his shoulder at the green fields behind him.

Everyone walked alone in fear and grief. This is what it was to be a knight.

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	5. Gawain

**Title;** Gawain

**Rating**; T

**Summary;** Damn him. Damn Galahad and his stupid rages. He was drenched- there was no doubt about that.

**Authors notes;** I'm not happy with this, but I'm going through writer's block, so I have the temperament of a stegosaurus with it's arse on fire. It might be alright, but to me, at the moment, it's awful.

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He was drenched- there was no doubt about that. Sitting on the topmost battlement in the pouring rain tended to do that to a body- no matter how many layers he was wearing. Gawain shifted uncomfortably, trying to unstick the linen shirt from his broad shoulders.

Damn him. Damn Galahad and his stupid rages. Another argument, another screaming match, and another night of Gawain waiting for his room mate to come back. Drawing a leg up, the eighteen year old wrapped an arm around his calf and leant his chin against his knee, watching the road for signs of a horseman.

This time, it had started over a botched raid by the Woads. Not content with killing half a dozen women and children in a borders settlement, they'd gone after the knights as they tried to shepherd the rest of the villagers away from the battle. Galahad had been knocked backwards off his horse, prompting Gawain to kill the Woad who was attempting to stab the winded man through the heart.

Galahad had not taken it well;

"I can fight my own battles!"

"Prove it," Gawain bellowed back. Galahad flew at him, fist clumsily brushing the bigger knight's side through the billowy linen shirt he wore. Gawain tossed the lighter man to the ground, pinning him with a foot between his shoulderblades. Galahad bucked, knocking Gawain off balance. He jumped on him then, landing a punishing blow under the blond man's eye, splitting the skin on his cheekbone. Gawain's arms fell to his sides, shock rooting him momentarily to the spot. It was all the time Galahad needed to mount his still tacked horse and ride out.

That had been over half the afternoon ago.

Gawain raised a finger to the scabbed over cut, barely feeling the bruise through the numbing cold of the rain. Night was falling quickly now, making it harder to see through the gloom and the rain.

It wasn't like he wanted to fight Galahad's battles for him; but there were moments when Galahad became his little brother, Gareth. Today, it wasn't Galahad laying infuriated in the mud, it was Gareth. Gareth bloodied and glassy eyed, an arrow protruding obscenely from his ribs. Gareth wrapped for the burial. Gareth under the earth. He couldn't have stopped himself killing the Woad if he'd wanted to.

Cramp had begun to wind a fiery snake through his leg. Gawain released his calf, letting the partially dead limb slip off the stonework to dangle aimlessly over the wall side.

Suddenly, he tensed.

The rain continued to drum a steady beat around him as Galahad emerged out of the murky dark, looking almost as miserable and wet as he.

Leaping off the wall, Gawain headed back to their shared room, his duty done.

Being a knight was hard enough without losing those you loved and cared for. Galahad had become family to him. Another Gareth.

Having vowed never to invest too much emotion in one person again after his brother's death, the relief that surged through Gawain as he spied Galahad taking his horse into the stables was unwelcome, but needed nonetheless.

Maybe being a knight was bearable only because they had eachother. Maybe it was just something they had to do. Pulling his shirt away from his damp skin, Gawain took a deep breath, smelling the wet on the air. Maybe it was just the way things had to be.

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	6. Tristan

Title; Tristan

Summary; Tristan's instalment of To Be A Knight.

Authors Notes; Umm. Ahh. Yes. I don't like it. Again. But in the same breath, I do. Strange mood when I wrote this, and it comes over. Sorry.

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This land was cold and harsh. The wind set up a howling gale against the shutters that were boarded tight, and yet the chill that emanated from the stones of the room was far worse than the punishing elements. Tristan sat upright on his bed, legs crossed and his chin on one hand.

Across the room, his hawk sat on a stand, happy to tuck her head down and sleep.

No such rest for the scout. Unease tugged at him, urging the fighting instinct that had kept him alive for so long to go out and find the source of his turmoil.

Tristan leant back against the wall, angular and lithe in the firelight. He already knew the source of his disquiet; Isolde. He could not fight her; he would never have harmed her. Yet she left him. Left because of the strife and the pain that came of his tithe to Rome.

His golden eyes smouldered behind the strands of dark hair that obscured half of his face.

It hurt to think of her. What might have been would never come to pass, and with that, his heart broke.

Bors had teased him after Isolde had left, saying that there had been no reaction from the stoic man. Bors didn't see Tristan in the dark of night, holding tight to one of Isolde's dresses that he had stolen from her saddlebags. He didn't see Tristan forcing a whore to bend over a table so that he couldn't see her face. He didn't see Tristan sitting alone at the top of the battlement, where Isolde used to watch for him.

Shifting against the wall, Tristan scowled darkly, fingers itching to take up his sword and swing at something. She _left_ him.

Rage and pain and hurt were all that consumed him. There was no deliverance here. Pain was simply replaced by a larger wound each time he saw a flash of golden hair in the market place, only to realise that it wasn't her. Every time he heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard, hope flared; the nobleman that would shove past him as he clung dejectedly to the doorway was another knife in his heart. Tristan was a man possessed by love and hurt.

The others didn't understand. Lancelot's advice was to find a whore that looked like Isolde. He'd left that conversation with a broken nose. Tristan heard his own voice roaring, echoing around his head. "It's not _her_!"

It would never be her.

A soft knock at the door drew his attention from the flickering firelight. A young woman stuck her head around the door and twitched her nose at the mess. "M'lord Arthur asked me to tell you that there's a meet in the morn, and would ye kindly attend." It wasn't a question, and something about her tone pissed Tristan off. Before the girl could withdraw, he had her wrist and was pulling her into the room, slamming the door shut. She yanked her arm out of his grasp and slapped him, hard. Instantly, she backed up, horror in her eyes. "M'Lord, I-I'm sorry."

Tristan didn't do anything.

She moved for the door, only to be blocked by his larger, sturdier frame. She backed away again, wide eyed and doe-like in the firelight. Her hair was the same golden hue as Isolde's, though her frame was smaller and more delicate than his warrior woman's toned physique. Her eyes were dark, too. She raised a hand to her mouth and drew a sharp breath. Tristan continued to stare at her.

"What?" she asked, wariness creeping into her eyes.

"You look like her." His voice sounded deep and pained. The serving girl's eyes softened. "Only in our hair, M'Lord," she said quietly.

Tristan remembered her name- she had known Isolde, but Tristan had never truly spoken to her, leaving his lover to her own devices.

"I miss her," he whispered. What was he doing? This girl was a complete stranger. Yet, she had known Isolde; it was like having a part of Isolde with him. Stepping forward, he raised a hand to her shoulder. She stepped back quickly, fear now clearly present in her eyes.

"Leitha," Tristan murmured. "Your name is Leitha."

"You'd do well to remember it, M'Lord," Leitha said warningly. Tristan paused, narrowing his eyes. Leitha visibly hardened her expression. "I have rounds to do, M'Lord. May I leave?"

"No."

Tristan found himself grabbing her shoulders as she attempted a run for the door, almost immediately, he released her. Leitha kicked him in the shins, sending him crashing down to the ground- at the last second, he grabbed her arms, pulling her down to thump against the side of the cot. For a moment, she simply lay still, dazed. Tristan pulled her up and pushed her back onto the cot, wincing as his knees twinged. "That was stupid," he growled.

"Aye," Leitha agreed, rubbing her wrist. She glared at him.

"We aren't talkin' about the same thing, are we?" He said after a moment.

"No, we 'aint, M'Lord. An if you're askin'-which you're not- yeh, you need to let her go." Tristan almost smiled. Almost.

"You should go," he said quietly. Leitha fairly flew from the room, slamming the door behind her. He sank onto the cot, feeling colder than ever.

And now he couldn't even explain to himself what was running through his veins. Leitha wasn't Isolde; he knew that. He pressed the palms of his hands hard against his eyes. This was what it was to be a knight. This madness and confusion and hurt. Death would be welcomed as an alternative to this all consuming chaos.

Tristan settled on the cot, one arm over his eyes. Maybe it would be different in the morning.

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Arthur nodded to him in greeting as he headed towards the great hall. Tristan tilted his chin up in salute-then jumped as an object thudded into his chest. Catching it before it fell, Tristan looked in confusion at the shiny green apple in his hands.

"No hard feelin's, M'Lord."

Leitha grinned at him from behind the bar. Tristan nodded to her, then followed Dagonet into the meet hall.

Maybe Isolde was gone, but it didn't mean he had to be alone. To be a knight was to survive. Maybe it was time to start surviving.

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